


Much Too Blind

by deemn



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deemn/pseuds/deemn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s had a day, okay?  That’s why she says it.  Because she’s had a day and it’s not like she’s pushing genius levels even on her best days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Too Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Started out light in tone and then doglegged into angsty shit. Also possibly/probably OOC at the beginning but it’s not like canon is in-character anyway…?
> 
> Whatever. Emma is a pottymouth and who the fuck names their kid after their other kid's shitty baby daddy anyway. Fuck canon.

She’s had _a day_ , okay?  That’s why she says it.  Because she’s had a day and it’s not like she’s pushing genius levels even on her best days.

Briefly, Emma thinks about blaming this one on Snow White.

David calls hella early saying neither he nor Snow have slept in two days because replacement!baby is teething.  Emma wants to know why that’s her problem but instead says, “What do you need?”

Some light babysitting.  That’s all.  Some light babysitting while Snow sleeps and David works his shift at the animal shelter while hooked up to a caffeine drip.

Replacement!baby is mostly harmless—when contained to himself—so it’s no big deal, right?  Snow in one room, David in another building, replacement!baby in a third room with Emma.  No cause for tension, right?

Wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Because Snow is an overbearing mother even without an infant and sleep deprivation.  Because Snow is a control freak.  Because Snow is _Snow White_.  She doesn’t go to sleep.  She doesn’t even go in the general direction of sleep.  Nope, that woman inhales a red eye and continues to fuss over replacement!baby.

[Who has a name.  _Lancelot_.  Poor fucker.  It was better than the alternative, and at least Regina can say _Lance_ without flinching.]

Emma’s pretty sure that if Snow just let the poor little fucker be, he’d get a handle on his teething pain and calm the fuck down.  But she’s constantly jamming his mouth open and rubbing ice on his gums and shoving little gummy rattles at him and mostly—look, Emma can take a certain amount of offensive prodding because she knows that at some point she can get up and walk away or throw down or whatever it takes to make it stop, but Little Fucker Lance can’t walk away and can’t hit back and doesn’t know how to make it stop.

So she snaps.  Snaps like frozen breadsticks at Granny’s, snaps.  Snaps and shouts, “Fucking _Christ_ , Snow, lay off the little shit for five seconds, he’s probably so overstimulated that he can’t even feel his face, forget his teeth.”

Snow blinks at her.  Lance blinks at her.  Emma blinks at herself.

And then Snow smiles one of her pastel-pink smiles and Emma knows whatever happens next, strangling Snow isn’t _really_ an option.

“I know what I’m doing, Emma, I’m his _mother_.  And you’re hardly an expert on babies, now, are you?”

Strangling is not an option.  Snow is overtired.  That’s all.

So Emma smiles wanly and holds Lance a little closer, uses her shoulder to block Snow’s jabs with a rattle.  “Nope, I’ve got about as much experience as you.”

It’s the tamest version of what she wants to say.  Snow shows no such return courtesy.  “Yes, well, at least I’m not shacking up with the woman responsible for _both_ of our lacks of experience.”

There’s a lot of things Emma could say that.  There’s a lot of things that Emma has said to that.  And there’s a lot of things Emma wants to be for replacement!baby Lance, but she won’t be any of them if it means Regina gets hauled into this clusterfuck of drama again.

So she stands up and deposits the little shit in Snow’s lap, ignores his confused face.  “And we’re done here,” she announces, dusts her hands off right in Snow’s face—let it never be said she wasn’t an asshole given half a chance—and grabs her jacket.  “Real quality time as always, Mom.”

She slams the door on her way out, and smiles grimly when Lance’s wails reach the bottom of the stairs.

Back at the house, she kicks at the practice dummy in the backyard for thirty minutes or so—her endurance is shit, but life is quiet and she’s starting to believe that preparing for the worst brings the worst faster—until Regina slides open the back door and calls to her.  “Henry’s been called in as your replacement, so let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“All the curses you’ve been holding in since you stormed out of your mother’s hovel.”

Midway through her rant, it occurs to her that one of the best things about Regina is this.  This calm acceptance of negative emotions, this making space for them, this tinder and kindling and steady streams of air until all of the _no_ has burned right out of her body.  

(There are other best things—the way she kisses when she’s mad, the way she smiles when she’s so secretly happy she could cry, the dip at the small of her back just above her ass, her ass, her vaguely exhibitionist streak—but they’re all in different worlds from this.)

“I mean, she’s _aware_ that the only reason I know anything about what to do with the little shit is because of you, right?”

“No, she is not aware, and she will not be made aware.  We agreed.”

Emma huffs, and hurls a throw pillow across the room.  Regina sighs and waves it back onto the couch.  “It’s just complete bullshit.”

“Say what you mean.”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not,” Regina counters calmly.  “You’re saying all the things that make you indignant about Snow’s history with _me_.  We know all that.  And yes, I appreciate knowing that you feel this strongly about it.  But that’s not what pissed you off to start with and that’s not what’s keeping you angry.  So _say. What. You. Mean._ ”

She stares at Regina, and stares some more.  Regina doesn’t waver, not for a second.

(Regina never wavers.  Regina is the only constant in this whole fucked up fairy tale life of theirs.)

“If she thinks she can make up for abandoning me by smothering this little shit to death, then she’s either stupider than I ever thought or just plain malicious.  And if she keeps going like this she’s gonna ruin him, too, and that’s not fair.  He didn’t do anything wrong.”  She looks up at Regina, whose eyes are soft and forgiving.  “Except I don’t want to take this on for him.  And that’s not fair, either, is it?”

“Maybe not.  Maybe expecting you to in the first place is what isn’t fair.”  A beat of silence, and then Regina’s voice again, harder, unforgiving.  “Maybe making you see yourself as _ruined_ is what isn’t fair.”

Her arms are open and there’s a whole half a couch available, so Emma sprawls in the empty space with her head in Regina’s lap, buries her face in the soft fabric over her stomach.  “I’m so _confused_.”

“That’s okay.”  Regina’s got a hand in her hair, doing that scratchy thing that makes everything better.

“And _angry_.”

“That’s okay, too.”

“You smell nice.”

Regina laughs, low down in her belly, and maybe things will be okay.  “Thank you.”

“Can we fuck now?”

“No.”

“Damn it,” she sighs, nuzzles against Regina’s stomach for a moment longer.  “So now what?”

Gently, gently, Regina tugs at her hair until they can make eye contact.  “Now you go get the ladder and clean out the gutter I’ve been reminding you about for two weeks.”

“Why do I have to get the ladder?  Why can’t you just magic it?” she whines.

“Because I can’t see it to know what it’s comprised of.”

“And ‘cause you’re afraid of heights.”

“I am not afraid of heights.  I am respectful of vertical drops that could kill a person.”

“Pussy,” Emma snickers.

Regina’s grip on her hair tightens to just shy of painful.  “If you plan on getting any ever again, I suggest you get the ladder.”

She gets the ladder.  She cleans the gutter.  She even changes the porch light that blew a month ago and calls Storybrooke Hardware to rent a power washer for next weekend—the siding by the garage is getting a little mossy—before heading back inside, a little sweaty and plenty grungy from rotted leaves and dust and cobwebs.

When she’s showered and dressing, Regina comes into the bedroom, immersed in some bill or other, and goes rummaging in her purse for something—checkbook, maybe, or more paperwork.  And maybe it’s because she feels _clean_ and maybe it’s because she thinks Regina is unwavering and maybe it’s because she’s an idiot and maybe it’s because she’s her mother’s daughter—whatever it is.  Whatever it is, Emma tugs her sweatpants over her hips and asks, casually, like it’s an easy question, “Hey.  If you could say anything to your mom and have her actually listen, what would you say?”

What makes it worse is that she doesn’t even realize how badly she’s fucked up, not right away.  Because Regina is _unwavering_ and just says, “I don’t know.  I don’t really think about her,” before striding out of the room with even, steady steps.

No, Emma only figures it out when Henry gets home, complaining about replacement!baby and how Snow’s probably going to smother his teeth back into his skull, and Regina hugs him for two heartbeats longer than normal, smile wavering just a little.  “Why don’t you order a pizza, sweetheart,” she suggests, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.  “Maybe two.  And we’ll pick a movie.”

It’s Sunday.  It’s Sunday and Emma has fucked up so bad that she’s actually frightened.  She tries to corner Regina in the kitchen, says, “Listen, I didn’t—I shouldn’t—I wasn’t thinking and I’m sorry—“

“What are you talking about, dear?” Regina asks, and pours herself some wine.

Emma tries to apologize before the pizza gets there.  She tries to take it back while clearing the table.  She begs Regina to just _talk_ to her before Henry hits play on _Pacific Rim_.  Regina sidesteps, and waves it aside, and smiles in that painfully lonely way before tugging Emma down next to her on the couch.  “Shh.  You’ll miss the Jaegers.”

They are in bed and not talking and Emma wants to just reach out and _touch_ her and she wants to take it back and she swears she’ll learn her lesson this time.  Carefully, carefully, she stretches out a hand until she feels the smooth curve of Regina’s shoulder under her fingers, and then something just _gives_ , and Regina’s there and in her arms and wavering and uncertain and Emma wraps her up, holds her tight, whispers _I’m sorry_ until the words blend together.

“Please stop hurting me,” Regina whispers.

Emma’s heart stops.  “What?”

Regina pulls back, just enough to make eye contact, and the look in her eyes—Emma’s heart breaks.  “What I’d say to her.  If I could say something and have it make a difference.  Have her actually listen.  _Please stop hurting me_.”

Emma holds her tight, holds her safe.  (She knows better than to promise that she’ll make it stop, but God, it’s tempting.)


End file.
